


Keep it Together

by hauntedd



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedd/pseuds/hauntedd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Beth has are moments of clarity between clouded thoughts and experiences.  The feel of Art’s weight on top of her, the stubble of his beard pricking her cheek, and the way that her name sounded on—<i>shit</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep it Together

The details are shaky and Beth can’t piece them together into anything that resembles a timeline. First it’s her hearing getting scheduled, then it’s Katja—or Paul the _spy_ —or maybe it’s Paul then Katja’s bloodletting—or maybe it’s Alison and the gun range—or _Sarah Manning_ — or Sammy and _Tony_ —or it’s Helsinki and Janika’s death—but they all crash like waves against the shore and the pills do little to make sense of it. 

But it doesn't really matter. It's all a distraction to ignore where she's ended up. 

_Art's place._

There was Art and rum and Adderall and Ativan and fuck if she knows what else. They give her these things and she takes them and the bullet under Maggie Chen’s skins fades for a time. That’s all that matters, because she can’t accept that she’s done _this_ to protect herself, to protect all of them, only to discover that it may not even be the Jesus freaks after all. 

It may be their creators. And she’s compromised her integrity for _what_? 

She doesn’t tell Art any of this. She’s high, not stupid. The fuck is she even going to say? _'Hey, Art, my life is falling apart around me and there are hundreds of women who see the same face staring back in the mirror?'_ She isn't even sure what this _is_ in the end—she is a clone, but what is a clone? Is she even a person? Or is she something else entirely. If all these women share her DNA is she just a small part in a larger being? A cog in a machine? Or is she an individual? Does her life even really matter, when you can slide another lookalike in her place?

Fuck. 

Fuck Katja for getting her into this mess and fuck DYAD for creating her and fuck herself for ignoring it in the first place. And now she's gone and fucked up the only good thing left to her. Her parents are dead and Paul is a _liar_ , but Art is alive and refreshingly honest. But Art is her _partner_ , not a confidant, and this is a line she shouldn't have crossed. 

Beth had just wanted to feel something other than the crushing weight of paranoia and guilt—and Art wanted her in spite of it—so here they are. He’s sleeping and she is in his bed and Beth isn’t sure how she can survive this, especially when all that’s happened has quickly become a group of hazy memories buried underneath pills and alcohol and bullshit. 

There’s his body and her body and his navy sheets and Beth _knows_ herself well enough to put two-and-two together to realize that she’d instigated this, somehow. Art may have wanted, Art _does_ want, but Beth _takes_ in a desperate attempt to grasp onto something stable—and real—in the midst of all of this chaos. 

They’ve crossed several ethical lines, but Beth doesn’t _remember_ the specifics of any of the lines blurred in the aftermath of Art sticking Maggie's cellphone in her hand. They give her drugs and it all disappears—she might not be able to run, but she can _hide_. 

All Beth has are moments of clarity between clouded thoughts and experiences. The feel of Art’s weight on top of her, the stubble of his beard pricking her cheek, and the way that her name sounded on— _shit_. 

She feels a shift next to her and her heart is racing in her chest—Art is awake and she has no smart-ass remark for this. They’ve gone and blurred lines that shouldn’t have been and Beth isn’t even sure if she’d _wanted_ this in the first place. 

No. She hadn’t wanted it. It just happened. And she isn't sure what the fuck to do now. 

Art doesn’t deserve this.

“Beth?” Art mumbles, his voice soft and questioning as his weight shifts into the mattress, causing it to bend underneath them. He sits next to her, an arm on the small of her back, his callouses rough against her skin, and Beth tenses at the contact. 

“Go back to bed, dipshit.” It’s an attempt to reestablish their roles—the smart ass and the by the book cop—but it seems different now, less of a divide and more like genuine affection. If they weren’t—if _she_ wasn’t so fucked up, then _maybe_ — 

Shit. The fuck is she even doing, romanticizing this? There is no romance. This is what she _is_ , what she _does_. Beth taints and now she’s dragged Art down with her. First with Maggie and now with this—he’d take a bullet for her and she’d taken advantage. 

Shit. She needs another pill, another escape. Something. Anything.

“No, I’m awake—“ 

“Yeah,” Beth mutters awkwardly, stumbling over her words, nothing is as easy as it was only a few hours ago. “So am I.” 

“I noticed—“ 

“Art—“ 

“Beth,“ Art interrupts. His dark eyes reading her body language, and Beth senses his walls erect around him once he realizes that she isn’t comfortable with whatever this is. “We’re partners. You’re under suspension.” 

“Yeah I know, I—“ Beth inhales and looks at Art, trying to figure out what to say. _I’m sorry. I was high. I like you_ as a friend _. We can get past this. I used you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

Instead Beth lets the words hang beneath them, unsaid.

“This never happened.” Art says after a few minutes, his voice cracking—just enough—that his usual no bullshit tone is gone and she can tell that she’s hurt him.

“Yeah,” Beth agrees, grabbing her shirt and throwing it over her, needing something between herself and Art. “ _Yeah_.”

“Okay.”

Her jeans are in her hand and she slides her feet in one after another and Beth tries to forget this whole thing. Chalk it up to yet another disaster in a string of disasters as she tries to navigate the whole _clone thing_.

“So I’ll just—“ Beth makes a motion toward the door and Art nods just enough to acknowledge that she’s said something, and she exhales. Her eyes burn at the corners and she feels a lump in her throat.

Is she _crying_? Shit. She isn’t supposed to feel anything—and in twenty minutes, she won’t.

This is for the best. Well, no, it isn’t for the best—for the best would have been _Not. Doing. It._ —but it’s the cleanest exit either of them has available. So Beth stumbles out the door out of Art’s apartment. Back toward her pills and clone bullshit and the façade that everything is okay and she is fine, totally fine. Because Beth will be _fine_ once she takes the edge off and stops feeling whatever the fuck this is. 

She’ll be okay. She _has_ to be okay—that’s her role in this mess—the strong one.

She’ll be fine. 

_Eventually_.

**Author's Note:**

> I totally took Art's _it happened_ to mean that they happened.
> 
> Once.
> 
> And I wanted to kind of go there with Beth. So yeah it's a bit jumpy because she's high af and already deep into a self-destructive cycle that we sort of saw to its conclusion on the show.


End file.
